


Would You

by isyotm



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bands, F/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 15:47:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3255467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isyotm/pseuds/isyotm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cassandra spends the first hour of their trip to Vermont mad at her boyfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Would You

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WGc1qhTtvqo) song and my sad weakness for shitty indie bands.

Logically, Cassandra knows it’s a little ridiculous that they’re driving two separate cars to their show in Vermont. Even with all the equipment they lug around, there’s plenty of room for two people in their shitty minivan.

At least, there is when she’s not mad.

And right now, she’s mad.

She grits her teeth and tightens her grip on the steering wheel, resolutely not thinking about the man—her boyfriend—driving said mini-van. She glares into the rear-view mirror. _Liar_. Okay, _now_ she’s not thinking about him.

Her phone buzzes, rattling around in the cup holder next to her. She’s tempted to ignore it—she knows exactly who it is—but it’s more efficient if they keep their rest stops coordinated.

“C—”

“We’ll stop for dinner in three and a half hours. Is that acceptable?”

There’s a staticky rush of air in her ear that sounds like a sigh. “C, can we please talk about this?”

“It’s dangerous to talk on the phone while driving.”

“We could—”

“I will speak to you again in three and a half hours. Think of where you’d like to eat in the meantime.” She hangs up and goes back to staring out the windshield like she wants to punch a hole through it.

 

* * *

 

Varric wishes he didn’t love his girlfriend quite so much. That way it’d be easy to pretend the silent treatment doesn’t bother him. Instead, he finds himself staring despondently at the outline of her head against the headrest and wishing instead that she was sitting next to him. They don’t talk a lot on road trips, or at least she doesn’t, but occasionally she’ll hum along to the radio or reach out and rest her hand on his leg.

He misses it.

A commercial comes on, something about liposuction, and he wonders if she’s listening to the same radio station he is. She always makes a face at ads like these and a disparaging comment about the deliberate misinformation they spread.

He changes the channel to a pop station he knows she hates and resists the urge to bang his head against the steering wheel. With his luck, he’d smack the horn and she’d think he was making fun of her.

He switches the station back. They’re playing her favorite song.

Something in his chest aches.

 

* * *

 

By the end of the first hour, Cassandra’s anger has started to ebb.

By the end of the second, embarrassment has all but replaced it.

By the end of the third, she just really misses Varric.

She’s not used to being alone in the car for so long; they go almost everywhere together and she wonders if there’s an inch of the country left that she’s seen without him by her side.

The empty quiet is too loud and it amplifies her loneliness. She flicks a glance at her phone. If she called, what would she say? “Sorry for being stubborn, like always”? “I forgive you and you’re right maybe I was a little jealous”?

She dials. He picks up on the first ring.

“It’s only been three hours,” he teases, but she can hear the fragile note in his voice.

“I am…willing to talk.”

“Now?”

“No. Like I said, it’s dangerous. But at dinner.”

“Okay.”

They’re both quiet for a moment, each waiting for the other to either say something or end the call. She’s not sure what she wants to hear from him, but she wants to hear _something_. Otherwise she’ll be alone in the car again, with too much space and too much quiet.

“C?”

“Yes?”

“I—see you soon.”

“See you soon,” she says and hangs up.

 

* * *

 

 Varric parks behind her car in the lot of the White Castle. Not exactly high-brow, nor is it really the place for a reconciliatory dinner, but paying for twice the gas has slashed their budget so White Castle it is.

He holds the door open for her as they walk in and she gives him a small half-smile. He smiles back, feeling a little lighter already.

At the counter, the cashier completely ignores him, flirting with Cassandra and calling her “beautiful,” asking with a raised eyebrow if there’s anything _extra_ she needs, and—the icing on the cake—telling her “it’s on the house.”

Varric watches as she grits her teeth. “I see.  In that case, could you double my order?”

“Wh-what?”

“I would like another one of everything. Thank you.” She moves to wait for their food without a second look at the poor cashier’s flabbergasted face.

Varric shrugs his shoulders and offers his best “what can you do” face, but he’d be lying if he wasn’t feeling at least a little pleased. It wears on him, people acting like he doesn’t exist. That there’s _no way_ Cassandra and him could ever be anything more than good friends.

“I thought you weren’t mad anymore,” he says to her under his breath.

“I never said that.”

“No, but—”

“I don’t like it.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

She looks at him in surprise. “What?”

“What?”

“Oh. That too, but I meant the cashier. I don’t like when people do that.” She makes a face. “It’s rude. And presumptuous.”

“Are you trying to make me feel better? Because, I have to be honest here, C, you’re not doing a very good job.”

She snorts and, instead of responding, loops their pinkies together and squeezes.

Varric’s pretty sure the choking noise he hears belongs to the cashier.

“Okay, now I feel better.”

She offers him another half-smile.

 

* * *

 

This feels right.

Sitting across from him, their feet occasionally knocking against each other as they share French fries and listen to the tinny pop music being piped in over the speakers.

“They played your song,” Varric says.

“What?”

“On the drive. Did you hear it?”

“No, I’m afraid I missed it.” She doesn’t tell him she was too busy stewing in her anger to turn the radio on, but from the expression on his face, he already knows.

He nods, takes a sip of his soda, and sings a few bars for her.

She hides her smile behind another bite of her burger. Varric doesn’t sing often—he’s the writer, the composer, the guitarist, the anything else they might need when out on the road—but when he does, it always feels like a gift, something he does only for her.

He pauses to take a breath and instead of the next line, he says, “I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she loops her ankle around his and offers him some more of her French fries.

The song changes to something slower, sadder, and they finish up the last of their food.

“I just wish you didn’t hide things from me,” she finally says. She knows he trusts her, but she wishes he trusted her enough to be honest with her. It hurts so much more when she has to find out on her own.

“I know. I’m sorry.” He looks up at her with a wry smile.

She stands up and grabs their tray. “Ready to go?”

 

* * *

 

He knows he’s forgiven, but it doesn’t feel like it.

They’re about three hours away from their hotel when his phone buzzes. He checks the caller ID and lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding when he sees her picture.

“Hey,” he says, the word coming out more fondly than he intended.

“Hi.”

“Miss me?” he jokes.

“Yes.”

He’s more than a little startled by her honesty and the sincerity in her voice. “Everything alright?”

“Yes. I just… Would you…” There’s a long silence and he wonders for a minute if the call dropped, but no, her picture is still there and he can hear the faint sound of her breathing.

“C?”

“Would you… It’s very quiet. I don’t like it.”

He swallows his natural instinct to make a joke out of it. He offered his apology in the restaurant and now this is hers, her ‘sorry’ for making him drive by himself and being so terse earlier.

“Yeah, it is. I don’t like it either.”

A sign flashes past, the bright green standing out like a beacon in the dark, and he smiles at it.

“Hey, we could take a break and go see the world’s tallest file cabinet.”

She makes a noise in her throat that sounds halfway between disgust and amusement.

“Not your thing?”

“Of course you would want to see something so silly.”

“Is that a yes, then?”

There’s a long pause before she says, “Okay.”

“See you soon.”

 

* * *

 

That night in the hotel, Cassandra curls up close to him in the big bed and rests her head on his chest. She can hear his heartbeat thudding against her ear and imagines that her own matches it.

She tells him this, whispers it softly into his skin, and he looks contemplative for a while before leaning over—“Careful, C”—and grabbing a pen and paper.

“What are you doing?”

“Writing down what you said. I think there’s a good song in there.”

She watches him for a while, his brow furrowing as he scratches out a word here or adds a line there, until her eyes get heavy and she falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> In what universe would Cassandra be the lead singer of a shitty indie band? Uh, this one, apparently.
> 
> I imagined [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jh2dCx54Ajk) as Cassandra's song.


End file.
